


The World Is Crying and All I Can Do Is Laugh

by Celestialfeathers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AUish, Crazy!Sam, Creepy/Comforting Lucifer, Hell Trauma, Hurt!Sam, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm running out of tags, Kinda messed up Hurt/Comfort, Mostly Vague Spoilers up to Season Six, Other, Post-Cage, Resouled!Sam, Seriously messed up Sam, The fact that that is a tag makes me happy and concerned, Though I suppose you can't really tell, protective!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:30:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4271859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celestialfeathers/pseuds/Celestialfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's soul is back, but something else is missing...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World Is Crying and All I Can Do Is Laugh

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: I wrote this at four in the morning, so it's therefore very weird and really messed up. Well, the messed-upness is more implied than anything, but better to be safe than sorry. Also, blasphemy. If you're watching Supernatural, it's likely not going to bother you. No idea where that section of it came from, either. You'll see what I mean. If there are any warnings or spoilers you think I should tag, I will do it without hesitation; all you have to do is ask. I really don't want to ruin someone's day. Anyways, I hope you like it!

The world is wrong and something is missing. There's an emptiness in his head, like someone took a spoon and scooped out a part of him, something important, vital. The colors are muted, and there's and emptiness where crackles and snaps used to be, and a steady _whoosh woosh woosh_ where emptiness had always been. Bones, his bones, he presumes, itch. The wholeness of them is disconcerting. He can barely feel his muscles, and they weigh him down, down so far that he must be sinking, even though he's already so deep; but they're also too light and he's floating and lost and unanchored. He's lost in his head, too, floating in the space where something should go.

His eyes are open, he thinks. They water, and this is good. This body is finally talking to him. He had been worried it couldn't. The blades are spinning above him, and he's used to blades, but not like this, just spinning and spinning in circles, going nowhere and doing nothing. Imminent. The _wooshes_ are coming from there, and his eyes are too dry. He blinks. This is surprising.   
Slowly, he sits up. Muscles are talking to him, now. They're friendly. They ache, but don't burn and scream and bleed. He doesn't know how to feel about that. His bones still itch. The void in his head aches.

There's new noise, filling up some of the emptiness. Rustling, like feathers made of paper and roughness, and the crack of unused knees and backs (he can relate), and a voice saying "Sam?" The voice isn't one of the ones he knows. He knows two, and they sound like wind chimes and knives. This isn't that.

"Sammy?" The voice asks again, and he turns, like a sunflower to the sun. A man is standing there, and there's a word on the tip of his tongue and a name written on his bones, but he says nothing. His bones itch, his tongue dries. He says nothing.

"Come on, man. It's Dean, your big brother. We got you out. Well, Cas got you out. You aren't there anymore. Please, Sam, talk to me!" The voice is loud, but it started soft. So many things like that; he isn't surprised. He wants to laugh, so he does. The man looks confused and worried and a little bit angry. He laughs harder. His lungs ache and he's coughing. His throat hurts, but nothing new. The only thing he'd had to slake the thirst was blood, and it didn't actually help. Water was not up to him.

The man looked anxious now, running a hand down his face, looking like he was trying to pull off a plastic face mask. Maybe that would help. His skin was crawling with invisible ants anyways, so maybe it would knock them off, too. Maybe when the fake face was off he would find the real one, and that was what he was looking for, his true face. Wasn't it? 

The man -who had green eyes, he suddenly noticed, eyes that were close to his- pulled his hands from his face, murmuring "Jesus Christ, Sam" under his breath. 

"I'm not Jesus Christ," he clarified. Not the green eyed one, him. Sam. He was pretty sure he was Sam, anyways. It didn't sound right, but nothing ever did. Not really, not anymore. 

The man -who said he was Dean, didn't he?- huffed a laugh. "Was that a joke, Sammy? Gotta say, not what I expected." 

"Not a joke. It's a fact." He (Sam?) stated. "Jesus was God's bastard child with humanity, They told me. He cheated on the universe. They were glad when they crucified him, and They crucified me, too. Were showing me about suffering in the name of God and his children, They said. Suffering for His true children; the ones he created with the universe, not insignificant humans." He could go on, tell Dean about the beautiful, swirling star mother and her children, the warriors of light whose purpose was far greater than any monkey barely risen from the Earthly dust, but Dean's face had fallen and he looked disappointed.

"Alright," the green eyed man muttered, "no talking about Jesus."

"Good idea," Sam agreed, nodding his head and feeling it bob around loosely, like it was screwed on wrong. "They don't really like to talk about him."

Dean looked at him calculatingly, and Sam could tell that he was searching for something. Sam was searching for something too, something that was under his skin or over his shoulder or in the empty air above him, but he knew he wouldn't find it in Dean. 

"Alright, Sammy," Dean said finally, "Since you're not comatose anymore and you seem like you've got your head on straight enough to talk, at least, how about we get you cleaned up? You haven't taken a shower in about a week, and you're starting to stink."

"Okay," Sam agreed. Dean looked relieved and helped him to his feet, carefully guiding him up the steps. Sam wondered what kind of shower it would be; whether it would be blood or acid or lava or something else. Climbing the stairs made him feel weird, like his joints were oiled up and too loose, and his muscles were made of butter. Dean said encouraging phrases as they went, but it just echoed in the empty space in Sam's head before dissipating, unheard.

He blinked, and they were in the bathroom. The tiles were cold and he shivered. He had socks and his skin, though, so he was better off than he sometimes was, and there were other, colder things than the tiles anyways. There was a shower in one half of the room, and Dean was asking him if he knew how to use it. Sam wasn't paying attention. He had noticed something else. Beside him there was a sink, porcelain white with splotches of mold along it towards the back. That wasn't the interesting part, though. The interesting part was above it.

A mirror, with a spiderweb crack along the top like a skull fracture and a cloudiness like a thin layer of muddy water, hung from a single nail in the wall. In the reflection he could see a man, one with brown hair almost to his shoulders, hazel-blue-green eyes, and a mole beside his nose. He knew this face: It had smiled on him and twisted in fury and pitied him with soft understanding eyes. He was looking in the mirror and it wasn't himself looking back; it was Lucifer. 

_We are one,_ a voice in the back of his head reminded him, a voice filling up the empty void that had lingered since he had woken up. _MFEO, remember? You and me, one and the same. You aren't going anywhere._

Dean was talking in the background and there was the sound of creaking pipes and splattering liquid, but it didn't matter. He had lost other things to this new world, he could tell, but he hadn't lost this. Sam smiled. Lucifer smiled.

The world was right and everything was whole.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it, and if you did, comments are greatly appreciated, as are kudos. (If you don't think I earned them, you really don't have to.)  
> Also, clarification, just in case I didn't explain it well enough: Sam was Lucifer's true vessel. While it makes it a lot easier to write about if he looks like Nick aka Mark Pellegrino, it's a lot more likely that he took Sam's form in the Cage when he wanted to look human, both for torture purposes and comfort ones. So when Sam looks in the mirror, he sees Lucifer who wore his form for a long time, rather than himself.   
> Anyways, hope that cleared things up. Thanks for reading it, and I hope you liked it!


End file.
